Our Birkie Week

Tuesday: Bags are packed with ski clothes, skis, boots, poles are located and loaded, the skis only after another look at weather.com and pondering of the weather forecast. 9 degrees and cloudy at 9am Saturday. Both cars are packed and I wonder if we'll need a trailer next year.

Wednesday: After my last class with the French students, I glance again at the weather (0 degrees and cloudy) and head to Portage to pick up mom, our designated helper and kid-sitter during our races.

Wednesday night I enjoy a late dinner of fries and a grilled chicken sandwich with mom at the Opera House Restaurant in New Lisbon. It's starting to snow as we head north on I94, not heavy, but I'm starting to think the trails are going to be a bit slow tomorrow.

It's 11:30 and pitch black at our rental cabin outside of Minong. Janet and the kids were supposed to be here already; our last phone call had her about 40 miles north when we were clearing Eau Claire. There's just time enough to worriedly try her cell phone, no answer, when the headllights illuminate the trees and the red Scion rolls up. 'Hi Dad!' Relief. We made it up in one piece for another year.

Thursday: The Barnebirkie is at 12:30! Unfortunately the wind has picked up and the wind chills are down in the negative range. At the church in Hayward, we learn that the 5k race has been shortened to three blocks. Groans from the kids. Karl and Johann go skiing off onto the lake, oblivious to the wind. Again the automatic reflex of fatherly pride as Johann laughs off our admonition to turn around and come back and Karl is already gliding off.

As each year passes it becomes more clear that the boys are becoming more independent. Normally, turning them loose on a ski trail would be very safe, no real chance to lose them. Throw in 1300 other kids, though, and the three adults were scrambling to figure out how to keep track.

Mom and I are sent to the finish line ahead of the first wave containing Karl and Johann. We run, dodge parents with cameras and make our way up Main St.

The kids are led by the Hayward ski team carrying flags from the nations in the Worldloppet circuit. And then the mad rush of youngsters. Karl has managed to line up near the front and finishes in the same spot three weeks later. 'Is that it?' Well, yes, but we'll go over to Fish Hatchery to ski for an hour. Johann comes up a few minutes later, skiing classic technique, a huge smile and taking in the milieu of the finishing area. Each gets a medal hung on his neck and we shepherd them over to the Backwoods coffee shop for hot chocolate and espresso.

I check the weather forecast: 0 deg and partly cloudy. Do I commit to the cold wax yet?

Thursday night is Karl's birthday.  Not exactly, but for seven of the last eight years we've celebrated with friends and family the birth of our youngest on the night of the Barnebirkie.  Normally our birthdays are about the cake and grandma didn't disappoint with a classic chocolate cake.  This year also had a big surprise: a new racing bike to replace the 24" Giant TCR Junior we purchased in France two years ago.  It is amazing how fast these guys grow.  We'll be stopping by Free Flight to size up a red Trek 2.1 WSD (still trying to figure out another acronym that will be 10yr old boy friendly).

Friday: Tomorrow's the big day and the butterflies are starting to appear. First, though, is the Junior Birkie, which will be a new experience for Karl. It's limited to 10 to 13 year olds and promises to be a real spring at just 3.5k. We leave early, just the two of us, and find the registration tent behind the Telemark Lodge.

Karl is having second thoughts, not sure that this will be too fun. I don't want to force him to race, but I encourage him to go through the motions and share some of my anxieties before races I've been in. He's surprised. Dad has anxieties?

We find ourselves sitting in the hallway next to a family of skiers getting ready for the Junior race. Dad is the wax tech and we share a laugh; I only had two kids and wife to wax for and he had seven. He noticed Karl was upset and came over to make him feel better. Later, 'Ok, dad, I'm going to race.'

The course winds on a 1.7k loop into the woods on a rolling course before returning and making a sharp climb to the finish line. Karl sets up in the holding pen and creeps into the second row for the start. The start and a mad rush and they're in the woods; my son off on his own with a hundred other boys.

Anxious parents wait on the other side of the loop, snapping pictures as the leaders from Spooner shoot over the crest. Five seconds. Fifteen seconds. Thirty seconds and then the rest of the group start coming through. After thirty or so come through, most not as good as Karl, he pops over, sees me and declares he's quitting. Something's happened in that mysterious part of the course outside of my parental sight.

'You have to quit at the finish area.' I hope he'll recover and reconsider, but I find him behind the start area, staring at the snow. Flashback to my childhood failures, the fear of condemnation by my father who had such high hopes for my basketball career, unspoken but present. I put my arm around him and say nothing.

Later I learn that he was forced into the woods on a turn by another skier and this through him way off. 'Next year, I need to start at the front.' Again that chronic fatherly pride.

Later in the lodge, after I pick up the bib packet, and departure for the cabin is approaching, one last stop at the Fast Wax booth for the latest recommendation. 15 deg and cloudy. 'We're still saying to wax cold, the snow is dry and the clouds will keep the moisture down. White over Teal. No Flouro.'